


Always Am

by Faeyt



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Past Relationships, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6687238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faeyt/pseuds/Faeyt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before there was the mask or the suit, there had been James Wesley and Matt Murdock, two men who enjoyed each other's company as much as they did each other's bodies. </p><p>But ambition had drawn them apart: Wesley determined to help Fisk rebuild Hell's Kitchen while Murdock felt called to save it.</p><p>Neither could risk love, but somehow it found its way in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Am

There was irony, not lost on him, that he was a blind man in a strip club with loud, pulsating music and salivating mouths, hands shoving money down thongs and tight articles of clothing, none of which Matt Murdock could even see. But even so he had let his friends convince him that this would be a good idea. That he could unwind with them here with a few drinks and a little entertainment. Even if he couldn't see the dancers.

The music was too loud to his senses, drowning them and making his head spin. Everywhere, in every direction, people catcalled, yelled, shouted, and talked loudly. 

Tables were unhelpfully spaced close together and more than once he'd run into the velvety belt of the VIP tape, cordoning off the area for wealthy elites who wanted a more private show. The man working security there redirected him yet again, giving him another free pass on account of pity for his lot in life: his blindness. Pity Matt didn't want, but certainly wasn't going to contend.

Luckily Karen returned with their drinks.

* * *

* * *

 

"So there's this bar-" Karen started only to be cut off by Marci, who had been an instrumental consultant for their last client's case. 

"Please. It's a strip club. Only the best. And their bartenders actually know how to make mixed drinks. I'm not going to that hole in the wall that serves you cheap vodka with a side of asbestos." Karen shot her a look, more so for cutting her off than insulting the integrity of the bar they frequented. Josie's really was a shithole, if she was being honest. 

"I thought they took care of that," Foggy commented offhandedly. 

"They did," Matt added. "Still have the problem with the lead in the water, but no one ever goes there for the water anyway." They both laughed. 

Matt walked back to his desk and organized it while Marci ran her primly manicured nails up and down Foggy's lapels, whispering innuendo of the two of them going back to her place afterwards. "Well, are we gonna get going?" Karen asked, obviously uncomfortable with the flirtatious atmosphere looming between the two. Matt knew Karen had feelings for Foggy - had gotten her hopes up because beautiful, perfect Marci had been emphasized as an ex and he had made his intention of never getting back together with her clear. 

Only it wasn't so clear after all. 

It was murky. He slept with her, Matt smelling her signature brand of perfume on his clothes more often than not, and as of late they had been coming into the office together. Karen had stopped trying to hang out with Foggy outside of work, yet Foggy hadn't noticed, too caught up in the whirlwind that was Marci Stahl. In Lamborghinis and sushi places. In passionate sex and a confidant that knew him better than he knew himself, something he needed with Matt busily taking care of Hell's Kitchen both with a mask and as a lawyer. 

"Yeah, we should." Matt grabbed his white cane and put his hand out. He didn't need the guidance. He knew the building inside and out but the gesture was for Karen and he knew she understood by the grateful way she squeezed his hand. He returned the gesture, reassurance that it would all be okay; that she would be okay. Hell, even he knew that good things didn't last forever. The way he and Claire had fallen out of love had been proof of that. Nothing was certain. Maybe Karen was too much like him, too willing to stick her neck out for what she believed in. Maybe Foggy sensed that.

* * *

* * *

 

There was a line to get in; Matt could hear the thundering heartbeats of a couple of teenagers with fake IDs a few paces in front of them. Either the bouncer didn't care, the fakes were really convincing, or he had been slipped a few persuasive bills, but they got in. 

The rest of the line consisted of a split between upper-middle class - women, mostly, a few men interspersed - and a pair or two of socialites, the rest middle class men and women, and a small group of single thirty to forty-something paltry laborers who came for the stripping alone and would probably nurse a cheap beer or two. The line went by pretty fast. No one was turned away. Matt figured the bouncer was more of a prop than anything else. Why send away potential customers anyway? 

When they reached the front of the line the bouncer eyed Matt (his telltale white cane and shaded glasses), Matt could tell, probably just as curious as to the prospect of a blind patron at a strip club, but Karen put a hand at his elbow, as if she were proving that she would not let him get lost in the chaos. There was a small entry fee that Marci covered with a swipe of her credit card and then the man was telling them to have an enjoyable night.

When they entered, Karen gaped like a kid's first stint in a candy store. She didn't know what to look at - where to gravitate towards first.

It wasn't her first time in a place like this; she remembered buzzed nights with friends in college, shoving dollar bills down thongs with her friends. But this was no typical Hell's Kitchen strip club. She had heard about it but never gone. Who would she go with? Foggy? Matt?

Both notions were ridiculous.

The bar was well lit and inviting, with crystalline lights decorating the bar's granite top counter, sleek leather booths, and a chandelier overhead of the entrance to the VIP area. The stage was lit from the floor, music pumping from theater quality speakers.

Marci ordered herself a martini and handed a drink to Foggy, already knowing his order without needing to be told, proceeding to convince him to go up to the front of the stage with her and put a twenty down the male stripper's pants.

"Would you be interested in a more private show, ma'am?" asked a polite, dignified voice. 

Karen looked over to see a sharply dressed man with dark hair that was neatly parted and combed, skin unmarred by even a mole, and shaven, just a hint of cologne - the good stuff - that made her want to lean in and draw in a deep breath. He was handsome by every meaning of the word, with square plastic rimmed glasses that he made look suave. His name tag read Wesley. She almost accepted but then looked back at Matt, not wanting to leave him alone in an unfamiliar place.

"Your friend here may accompany me to a private booth." Karen looked back at Matt once more, her heart thumping in indecision, torn between the duty she had took upon herself and the very powerful need to just let go: to forget Foggy and his heroism and his stupid smile and the way his caring and kindness made her feel safe and at home. Even if just for tonight.

Even if she had to see him at the office tomorrow and pretend that everything was fine.

Matt inclined his head. "Go on." he said with a grin.

"But-"

"I'm not helpless. I'll be fine. Won't I, Wesley?" Karen's eyes widened a fraction. She was about to ask how the two knew each other but shook her head and decided to leave that query for another day.

"Alright you two." and with that she was giddily shown to a back room.

Wesley took Matt's arm in much the same way Karen had but instead of looping his own through, rested his hand on Matt's sleeve, a gentle guidance, neither pulling or pushing.

"I take it Fisk is here," Matt said, running his hand over Wesley's.

"My employer," Wesley corrected, "is otherwise occupied."

"Vanessa then. Why would he take her to a place like this?"

Wesley laughed. "He owns it." Matt joined him. What didn't the man own? "But it was her suggestion. Art, she said, 'comes in many forms.' I've never understood it, personally."

"Nothing more artful than the sight of desperation and loneliness, coupled with sweaty bodies, booze and an empty wallet at the end of the night then, I suppose."

Wesley laughed. "Mediocrity is a charm all its own. To the masses. Perhaps it's a blessing you are blind to it."

"Where does that leave you and I?" Matt questioned, shifting the conversation from deep the deep metaphor they had been using to run circles around the real things they had to say. He didn't care about how different, how fundamentally better he supposedly was than the average person in society. He wondered where he and Wesley stood in their elusive not - yet so - courtship. Neither were maudlin, claiming love. But whatever they were always drew the two back together like opposite charges in a magnet. Even if they did stand on opposing ends of the playing field.

"Where we've always been." Wesley said simply as they ascended stairs and sat beside one another on a plush couch. "By the way, whatever happened to that Claire girl?"

Matt made a face. "How do you know about her? Meddling? Thought our personal lives were inconsequential." Wesley's own words.

"She is a good nurse. Kind, perhaps. Maybe there was a light in her you craved. But hers was only a candle's flame. Not bright enough not to easily be extinguished. Not like you and I."

"No one will ever be like you and I," Matt admitted, rubbing his sightless eyes underneath their shades. "When will you retire from being that lunatic's butler." Wesley's brow twitched. 

"I. Am no butler," he gritted out. Matt sensed a sharp rise in body temperature that slowly returned to normal as Wesley calmed. "And what about you?" Wesley returned with a hint of scathing. "Running around in a mask at night for the sake of common folk who can offer you nothing their gratitude and fear of you, and doing the same in a shabby office for clients who can return with nothing but pies and bananas as payment. Trying to play some hero. Fisk will find out soon enough. Maybe not about you, but what about your friends? The lawyer who pokes his nose into things he shouldn't and the wannabe reporter."

Angry, Matt went to stand but was halted by a hand on his arm. "It was a warning, not a threat. I always make good on the latter." Wesley pulled the neglected drink out of Matt's hand and took a sip of it, the glass clinking when it was then set on a similarly glass table. Wesley ran his hand over Matt, breath quickening with arousal. "If I was going to out you, I would have done it a long time ago. Theatrics are not my style."

Matt leaned in, let the scent of the man encompass him. His cologne, a deep musk with a hint of spice, his aftershave a lingering mint. He removed his shades, then Wesley's glasses, carefully placing them atop the table. Wesley hummed in satisfaction of the decorum. He was a man of refined tastes; ripping off his clothes was best an activity saved for a different day, when the man's want overshadowed his mind.

Wesley groaned as he was drawn into a kiss, opening his mouth to Matt. Matt was his catch-22; his weakness. The way Vanessa was Fisk's. 

He and Matt had been lovers before Nelson and Murdock, before The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, and before his employer had decided to leave the shadows, and frankly, displace things in his efforts to purge the filth that clung to the city.

Hands roved over his back, removing his jacket and he complied, letting it slip from his shoulders as he involuntarily shuddered. Matt would hear his pulse racing but he didn't care. He'd kept himself away from this man and the need was smoldering. As if they were designed for each other alone, both slaves to their beliefs and separate causes. "I hope you don't intend to fuck me on this couch," Wesley murmured. At this point he would have been fine with anywhere, truthfully.

"You got a better place in mind?"

Wesley groaned, "Next time, you owe me a real bed, Murdock."

"Only if you'll be there when I wake up. I make a mean bowl of cereal." Wesley snorted. Matt took that as a yes.

* * *

* * *

 

Wesley pulled out a bottle of lube and a condom, Unwrapping it and yanking on Matt's pants. Matt made a crack at him being eager to which Wesley commented that he didn't know the half of it and Matt froze in surprise at the answer. "What? Thought I'd fill your place in my bed?"

"I've never actually been in your bed." Matt deflected with humor. 

Wesley smiled, Matt could tell, and leaned in. "Then I'll have to show you it. Hard to stay in one place for very long, you know. Or perhaps you don't. You seem to have a safe position under the guise of Hell's Kitchen's most charitable lawyer."

"Yet I doubt Fisk is uprooting very often."

"My employer doesn't handle the business-end of things, Matt. Doesn't have to worry about what can be traced back to him."

"And do you regret that?"

"Was saving your friend - secretary - Miss Karen Page's life, regrettable?" Wesley placed a kiss on his lips, "Was putting your life in danger for hers worth it?" Matt wished he could say it was different but he couldn't. He hadn't known her then. Truthfully, he didn't even completely know her now. Wilson and Wesley had long since been ensconced in a business-friendship akin to he and Foggy's.

"How about I make love to you and we not talk about lines drawn in the sand." Matt said. 

It was Wesley's turn to be surprised, nearly gaping at the phrasing, heart racing a mile a minute. He wanted to have Matt recant the word. He didn't want to even think about the word love with association to the man that made him do the most irrational of things. Like lie to Fisk and sneak around to see the man. 

But Matt kissed him and he closed his eyes, losing himself in the feeling. 

Perfunctory hands removed their pants, Throwing them into a heap on the floor. Matt, with help from Wesley, slipped the condom on and lubed himself up, coating his fingers and working them into the man beneath him. After a few moments Wesley urged him on. He knew they didn't have as long as he wanted; they never did. It was never quiet for long. 

They both groaned simultaneously. Wesley was tight. It was so perfect and hot inside. 

Wesley pulled him all the way with the ankle he'd hooked around his waist and they found a rhythm, steady and building faster and faster until Matt's thrusts were erratic and his hand was jerking Wesley off every time he pushed into his prostate.

Wesley came into Matt's fist, Matt fucking him through his orgasm and then exploring his mouth with his tongue when he came.

He laid down on top of Wesley and Wesley ran his hands reverently over his back as they caught their breath. "Damn," Matt had muttered, unintentionally voicing his thoughts aloud. Wesley let out a breathy chuckle.

"Not so bad yourself, Matt." Matt pulled him into another kiss, kissing him like they would never share another moment like this again. Because in the business they were in, they weren't promised another moment like this. Wesley, intuitive as ever, seemed to pick up on Matt's thoughts and kissed him back just as passionately.

"James." The name spoken so softly made him shiver. "Be careful."

"I always am. You should take your own advice, Devil of Hell's Kitchen; which, by the way, is a mouthful. You're not bulletproof." Wesley's phone rang and he promptly took it, exiting the room and descending the stairs to leave Matt in mostly silence, only the faint thumping of the club below to accompany him. He returned a few minutes later. "It would seem tonight must draw to a close. My employer would like a change in scenery."

"Get jealous of all the sweaty bodies?" Wesley chuckled lightly.

"Until next time, Matt." Wesley turned to leave.

"James-" there were words on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't get them out. From the increase in Wesley's heart rate though he knew that the other man knew. "Be careful," was what he said instead. Not I love you or let's just run away together, or all the other absurdly selfish pleas swimming around in his head.

"I always am," Wesley said again, just like before.

* * *

* * *

 

Karen Page was a tenacious sort, not disappearing like she was supposed to and dragging people into her little game of cat and mouse. Only Fisk was a very big cat with an excellent reputation of destroying even the largest of rats.

Money hadn't satisfied her, even though she had signed the papers and had the funds transferred to her, and neither did idle threats. So he would have to deliver one that stuck. In person. He doubted Murdock would forgive him if he had his secretary spattered all over Hell's Kitchen, which would certainly be the outcome if he involved Fisk, who already tired of the woman's pursuit of Union Allied. 

Karen had contacted Wilson's mother, asking about him, and she had remembered. The things she remembered weren't many nowadays but the ones she did stuck. If Miss Page's image stayed with her it would get back to Fisk, and the man had killed far more people for much less. The women in his life were the most important things to him. His mother and Vanessa.

Wesley borrowed the gun from Francis - he didn't carry one himself, didn't need to as his job rarely had him looking down the barrel of a loaded weapon - and told him to keep quiet about it. The only person he had shot at in the last year had, ironically enough, been the man in the mask himself. He was worse for wear, though not as bad as Nobu, who had become a human campfire. Of course he had waited a few seconds before shooting, and missed on purpose, feigning disappointment. 

He had abducted Miss Page and taken her to an abandoned warehouse. Fisk was still at Vanessa's side. 

He hadn't anticipated that she would riddle him with bullets though. Nor that the last face he would see would be Matt's. "Sorry," talking was a chore, "not careful enough," he told the imaginary visage of the man in explanation before his vision had faded like a burning picture. He hadn't planned on dying yet. 

Matt still owed him that lengendary bowl of cereal.

* * *

* * *

 

He had been beaten all to hell, stitched up like Frankenstein's monster, and bruised and cut in several places. Walking hurt. Even huffing out a cough stressed his broken and bruised ribs. 

Nobu had been a formidable opponent. The fight with Fisk after Nobu hadn't gone according to plan and after getting his ass handed so completely to him he had escaped being bludgeoned to death by jumping out of a two story window into too cold waters and swimming to shore before doing his best to get into his apartment with leaving a trail of lake water in his wake. 

Foggy finding out his identity had just been the icing on the cake and for a moment he had feared his friend would out him to the police but he hadn't. Instead he felt betrayed and lied to and things around the office were were just plain claustrophobic as the two danced around each other while simultaneously being forced to work together. And it didn't help that Karen was asking what was wrong, forcing the two to lie repeatedly. 

It had been only two weeks since Claire had patched him up but he was going stir crazy. Cases in the office had been slow and Karen seemed preoccupied with whatever way she was going about gathering information about Union Allied, about Fisk. 

He had snapped at her at work and told her that they needed to do things the proper way, with the law. Foggy had just thrown his words back at him in private, citing that going out as a masked vigilante at night wasn't exactly leaving things to the law. And then he had stormed off after once again making it clear that he was having a hard time trusting him.

He couldn't take another night sitting around doing nothing, feeling sorry for himself and regretting not trusting his secret to his closest friend. Still a large part of him thought he had made the right decision. He didn't want to put Foggy in danger just because he craved the mask. 

His side was hurting but he pushed through the pain, going into his closet and retrieving the suit. He put it on and it felt right. 

Then he slipped out into the night, honing his hearing like a police radio and sorting through the jumble of noise pollution. He heard a woman scream and followed it, but halted his steps and sighed when she followed up with a hysteric laugh, telling her friend that it wasn't funny that he had scared her.

He was about to leave when he heard the static of an in-ear-radio. "Have you located Wesley?" "Negative," the man responded. "We're still searching. He didn't tell anyone where he was going."

Wesley. Searching? Matt had a bad feeling about this.

* * *

* * *

 

He searched every where he could think to look and nothing. It was a time that sight would have been helpful. 

In a last ditch effort he checked the abandoned warehouses by the docks and as soon as he descended the stairs he smelled it: blood. 

Matt's feet couldn't carry him fast enough through the space that separated him from a table. He didn't hear a heartbeat, couldn't feel the heat that naturally radiated off of a human body but he did feel an expensive suit. His hand reached up and he gently stroked the back of his palm across an unmistakable face. 

A cold face.

"Wesley. James." Desperation, sorrow, the two colored his voice in equal parts. He put his ear to his neck, checked his pulse with two fingers and still nothing. 

Matt let his hand fall to the shirt dampened in blood, which had grown chilly. Traced the unorganized fashion of multiple gunshot wounds. 

Then he kissed still lips with soft finality.

"Should have made you give up your position as that monster's right-hand-man, you stubborn bastard," Matt yelled, "I should have ditched this stupid suit. You never liked Hell's Kitchen. We should have-" he couldn't continue. They were all lies. Wesley would have cited him on it.

In the distance he heard vehicles, several of them, and organized communication.

Fisk's men.

* * *

* * *

 

The thing that kept persisting at his mind as he sat alone in his quiet apartment was that there had been something else he had smelled in that warehouse that night. 

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot was originally intended to be Matt/Frank but the characters had other ideas. Also, this is my first post on here so I'm pretty excited.


End file.
